


Petrichor

by avi17



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Angst, Based on a drawing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 15:10:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avi17/pseuds/avi17
Summary: The memory is faint- a lifetime ago, it seems- but still sweet.  But Python is dead, and Forsyth is dying, and this isn’t the way either of them had thought things would turn out.





	Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BackForBreakfast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BackForBreakfast/gifts).



> I actually had no intention of posting this publicly, because I thought it was far too self-indulgent and borderline plotless, but really, gratuitous tragedy is a tradition in this fandom, so fuck it. ;P It was inspired by this art- https://twitter.com/khe_mn/status/976490628421894144- and was supposed to be a little bitty thing for Yayster, but it completely got away from me, whoops.
> 
> I also belatedly realized that it fit the "Revenge/Mercy" prompt set for Valentia Week (to which I otherwise totally failed to contribute), so there's that. XD

The rain is near-blinding and ice cold, easily soaking its bone-deep chill through Forsyth’s clothing and plastering his hair to his forehead.  His boots sink and squish unpleasantly in the muck of the battlefield, slowing his frantic search to a walk.  It’s impossible to even know who’s winning.  Most of the corpses he glimpses wear the lion crest of Rigel, but he’s lost most of the Deliverance as well- lost _Python,_ for long enough to plant a seed of dread in the pit of his stomach. He trusts Lukas and Sir Clive to keep themselves safe, but Python…it’s not as though he _doesn’t_ trust him, but a bow is no adequate weapon for the close-quarters chaos this battle had become.  

But perhaps Mila has taken pity on him.  There’s finally a lull in the rain just as he catches a blurry bit of blue amidst the brown and mossy green- a blessedly whole and unmarred figure sprawled out at the base of a sturdy tree.  He breathes a shaky sigh of relief, yanking his feet from the mud so he can hurry over faster.  It’s absurd to take a nap in the middle of a battle, but Python is an absurd person, and it’s hardly the first time.

Rolling his eyes in fond frustration, Forsyth sinks to his knees beside his friend, careful not to slip on the wet ground.  He’d never live _that_ down. He opens his mouth, to rebuke Python for his sloth- and perhaps for making him worry as well.

It takes him a moment to realize how utterly _still_ he is, and the words die in his throat.

_No, it can’t…but **how** …?_

At first, he doesn’t believe. It’s not _possible_ , not without a scratch on him- even magic leaves marks if you’ve learned what to look for.  He pats Python’s face, even smacks it none too gently ( _and surely the icy rain is why his cheek is so cold, that’s all…_ )  His hands dart frantically around, shifting armor and unhooking his collar, searching for something to explain this- something maybe he can _fix._

Finally, he reaches beneath his friend’s body to lift him, _shake_ him, and his hands come away slick not with grime, but with blood.

When he glances beneath him, it’s everywhere- soaked into the mud and carried away in rivulets of rainwater, hidden from him until he sought it out. Python’s head hangs back limply, like a broken twig just hanging on by the bark, and in a single, horrible moment, Forsyth realizes that there’s nothing left to save.

After that, everything goes numb.

He doesn’t cry, not yet.  He lifts Python gently, as though he’s a fragile, breakable thing, and draws him close to his chest, one hand tangling in his wet, eternally messy hair.  It still hasn’t fully sunk in- some pathetic, hopeful part of him keeps expecting the archer to stir in his arms, to elbow him weakly for squeezing too hard or whisper a bit of gallows humor into his ear, the way he does when he’s gravely injured.  _And he has been, more than once, but he’s always come back from it…_

But that won’t happen, not this time.  No matter how tightly Forsyth holds him, Python is cold and lifeless and there’s not a thing in the world he can do to make it better.

Slowly, the weight of it begins to settle on him.  The only constant in his life- besides his dream, and Python has been there longer- is gone.  Python will never grumble and pull his pillow over his head when Forsyth tries to wake him, never tease him or embarrass him in front of the other soldiers, never lay his head on Forsyth’s lap and doze off while he reads.  Python’s presence is entwined somehow into every minute of his life, everything he _does,_ everything he _**is** -_

They’ll never take their vow of knighthood together.  _Would Python have even gone through with that, or was it an empty promise he never thought he’d have to fulfil?  Does it even **matter** now?_

It doesn’t matter, because Forsyth failed.  Python followed him, stuck by him, humored him even when he thought him a fool, and Forsyth couldn’t protect him.

That final thought is what finally brings the tears, and once they begin to fall, it’s as if a dam has broken and he can’t hold them in.  With Python’s head tucked protectively under his chin, he rocks helplessly, the rain nearly drowning out his heaving sobs.  There are words within them, moaned low and desperate- _no, don’t leave me, **please**_ \- but it’s all pointless, and he’s met with only silence.

Still, he can’t let him go.

He might have remained there for hours, until he was drained of tears and the Deliverance found him and pried him away- but instead, through the haze of his grief, he suddenly hears _laughter._

The voices- two at least- are male, speaking in the rough banter of soldiers.  They aren’t voices that he knows, and their words are clipped and harsh.  _Rigelians._

“Guess the one you knifed had friends after all,” one of them says.  They’ve seen him.  “Thought we’d beaten ‘em all back for now.”

_Knifed._ Forsyth processes dimly, his fingers brushing over the tear in Python’s tunic, too small for a lance or sword. _In the back._

Python had died alone, separated from the army and thinking himself abandoned- murdered by a _coward._

Suddenly, through the sorrow that has consumed his entire being, something else emerges.

_Rage._

The soldiers’ voices are almost upon him now, their footsteps quickened, and before he even consciously decides to do so, he’s laid Python back down on the bed of roots and moss and wrapped his fingers around his spear.  

There’s movement directly behind him now.  In a way, he barely feels connected to his body, but his instincts are honed beyond the need for thought.  Still kneeling, he spins around and thrusts the lance upwards, and the ripping of plate metal and the crunch of bones make it clear that he’s hit his mark.   That sound shouldn’t be so _satisfying_ , and beneath the anger, he’s almost frightened at himself.  He’s always believed his cause to be righteous, and violence to be an unfortunate necessity, but he’s never _enjoyed_ it.

_But they killed him._

The Rigelian soldier only manages a pained gurgle, eyes wide, before he slumps, and Forsyth throws him aside from the spear’s point like a sack of flour. Clambering to his feet in the mud, he rounds on the second man- eyes wide, teeth bared like an animal’s, lance trained on his opponent’s chest.  There’s no trace of mirth left in the other soldier’s face now, with his companion slain at his feet.

A life for a life, Forsyth supposes, but it’s not enough.  Not _nearly._

Without a word, the soldier draws a wickedly sharp-looking sword and charges, and Forsyth answers with a low growl and a swing of his lance.  The fight is already beyond the arrogant taunts that often accompany a duel- it’s a battle for survival, and for _revenge._   Forsyth should be on the defensive- the swordsman is faster than him, though his reach is shorter.  But instead, he fights like a berserker- shield forgotten, swinging the spear like an axe, lashing out with the blunt end, _anything_ to land a hit.  His aim is poor in the heavy rain, though, and the soldier ducks and dodges his wild assault with practiced ease, darting in between his strikes to deliver a painful gash to his leg.  Forsyth cries out, but doesn’t fall, and pulls his spear back in time to parry a second slash and fling his opponent away.

They are well-matched, but the thought that such a skilled warrior chose to stab someone armed with only a bow in the back only makes him _angrier_.

For several tense, near-silent minutes, the fight continues much like that- both recklessly delivering injuries where they can but dodging the killing blows- until the Rigelian soldier makes a fatal error.  It’s the simplest thing- an unbalanced step in the slick mud that throws off his footing- but it’s enough.  With a wordless roar, Forsyth lunges forward and, with every ounce of his strength behind it, thrusts his spear in one final, brutal blow.

He doesn’t see the flash of the blade swinging towards him in return until it’s too late.

The sword juts from his side, well-aimed just around his breastplate, and it remains there even as the soldier’s grip loosens and he falls with Forsyth’s lance through his stomach.  The pain is excruciating, but something- fury or adrenaline- keeps Forsyth upright, and he twists the spear cruelly, over and over, until there are tears streaked down his face again and there can be no doubt that the man is dead.  His fingers loosen from the shaft, but his moment of triumph is brief- when he gasps for much-needed air, the agony brings him to his knees.

He _can_ still breathe, at least, so the blade must have missed his lung.  Still, it only takes a brief glance down at the blood streaking down his side to tell him that, short of a miracle, he doesn’t have much time.

Thankfully, the fight didn’t take him far from the tree where Python fell.  His strength is already beginning to fade- doubly so, as the rush of battle drains from him- but he manages to drag himself back, curling around his friend’s body and resting his cheek on his shoulder.  The canopy of leaves above softens the rainfall, and for a moment, it’s just like when they were young, sneaking naps in the forest outside their village when Forsyth had exhausted himself training (and Python had exhausted himself doing nothing at all).  As they’d nodded off, Forsyth would sometimes whisper with hushed excitement about his grand plans for their future- and Python would merely murmur his assent, with no aspirations of his own, but assured that wherever Forsyth went, he would be along for the ride.

The memory is faint- a lifetime ago, it seems- but still sweet.  But Python is dead, and Forsyth is dying, and this isn’t the way either of them had thought things would turn out.

It’s a bitter thing, to realize that this is _it_ \- that all his efforts have been for nothing, his elusive dream out of reach even to the end.  That he’s failed not only Python, but Sir Clive as well- Sir Clive, who saw _something_ in him beyond just his low birth, who gave him a chance and lifted him up when no one else would.

He hopes that, if word of his fate finds its way back to the Deliverance, he’ll be forgiven.

If they found them right now, perhaps a quick intervention from Silque could save him.  But he doesn’t even know where they are- and it breaks his heart, too, to realize that he’ll die without knowing if they’re safe, or if the liberation they sought will ever come. But even if they did come, he’s not sure he could face the world that would await him if he survived.

Maybe it’s a mercy.  Life without Python is unthinkable, and the idea of his dream is soured and empty when he imagines achieving it alone.

At least he’ll be spared that.

He can still feel the sword driven deep into his side, and in a moment of decisiveness- or perhaps foolishness- he reaches a trembling hand back and yanks it out.  Gasping in renewed pain, he lets it fall from his grasp, and shivers as the warmth of spilling blood mixes with the chill of the rain.  Black spots begin to grow in his vision, and while he can still just barely lift his arm, he reaches over Python’s body and gropes for his hand.  It’s cold and beginning to stiffen, but it’s a comfort to him, and he laces their fingers together.

His final thought is, strangely, of Mila.  Perhaps he’s been remiss in thinking of her- some, like Python, have never believed she had any power, while others have given her too much and blamed her for all their misfortunes.  Forsyth has always been somewhere in the middle- he’s not sure if he believes, but after losing his own mother so young, he’s always thought that a nurturing mother goddess is at least a nice idea.  There’s no newfound devotion in his last moments, merely hope.

If she truly is merciful, maybe someday, somehow, they’ll be given another chance.

* * *

 

In the morning, the storm has given way to a timid peek of sunlight through the clouds, the last of the rain dripping gently from the tree’s leaves onto the two companions cradled in its roots.

In the distance, there are footsteps.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't @ me about how pointless this is, I know ;P Catch me being an angsty bitch on http://aimless--archer.tumblr.com/


End file.
